Lightfall Two: Fox, Flight, Fire (Lightfall, Book 2)

by Jordan Taylor

  Sam appears flushed, hands shaking when he pulls the handkerchief from his face. Glancing at him as she untangles Chapo’s reins, Ivy wonders if he has ever had such a close encounter with risers by daylight.

  She tugs Chapo over to him. “Are you all right?”

  Sam nods, mouth tightly closed, not looking at her. She knows that face. She has seen people back home be sick after a close meeting with a pack. He breathes fast through his nose as he ties his little bag behind the saddle, then slides the Henry rifle into its sheath. Ivy feels surprised he still has it, as well as his own revolver at his belt. She longs to hug him, say something, do something. Even if she knew what to say, he likely would not enjoy her making anything of this in front of the others.

  After he helps her mount, she looks down at blood matting her yellow dress to her thigh where she was thrown across the road. Another new dress. Or can it be cleaned? With her arm newly healed, she hopes this one will not need medical assistance. Only scrapes. Pain begins as she finds her quirt on the saddle and prods Chapo forward to follow the restless Grip and Rosalía.

  As they start, she sees Grip has her Colt Lightning wedged in his belt beside his own holster, adorned with horsehair tassel. So they did get everything they came for. Ivy smiles, hands shaking on the reins, heart still pounding. Of course, Sam, Grip, and Rosalía must have just dispatched about twenty more, for which no bounty will be collected. Still, as payment for their lives, it seems a good deal.

  A mile outside town, they allow their tired mounts to walk and Ivy is able to prod the dun up beside El Cohete. The buckskin pins his ears and rolls his eyes at the old thing puffing beside him.

  “Why did you come?”

  Glaring forward, Grip jerks his head back toward Rosalía. He pulls Ivy’s gun from his belt and passes it to her as El Cohete lashes his neck around for a snap at Chapo.

  “Thank you.”

  Nothing. He looks angry. Like his horse. But he does most of the time so it is little to go on. She pushes Chapo toward the dark horse instead.

  “Why did you come after us?” Ivy asks. “How did you even know?”

  Rosalía smiles at her. “I ran into Grip—must have been a while after you left town. And asked him if you were able to get your room back at the boarding house. You could stay with me again if you needed to. He said he didn’t suppose you’d tried. You were heading back to the site of the fire from last night. I couldn’t believe he let you ride off like that and he said it was not his place to allow or disallow you and your companions to do anything you liked. So I told him I was going to fetch you—that the two of you shouldn’t be out there alone.” She shrugs—one of the crude gestures she demonstrates when in shirt and trousers. “Of course that incensed him. If I was going out he had to follow so I wasn’t eaten up. He’s reliable that way.”

  “I owe all three of you a great deal today.”

  “That’s all right. Everyone owes everyone else a bit extra in times like these. If we can do anything for someone else and choose not to....” Another shrug. She glances back. “Is English all right?”

  “I ... don’t know.”

  Sam is trailing. He has not said a word since the encounter.

  “There we are.” Rosalía looks up. The Santa Fé River is coming into view. “You will get a room and a bath and take care of those wounds?”

  “I’ll be fine. If I am not ... I know where to find you.”

  Rosalía laughs.

  Ivy slows her pace—the one activity Chapo is good at—to ride beside Sam as they enter the city.

  She watches him, wondering what to say, but he speaks first, only staring between his horse’s ears as Grip did.

  “I am so sorry, Ivy. I nearly got us killed for firearms and a possible bounty.”

  “I wanted to go back. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I did not think—a sin in itself. And I beg your pardon. Even with what you have told us, even last night ... I did not expect....”

  “No one does until they look it in the eye. No more your fault.”

  “It will not happen again. We must plan—know what we set out to do.”

  “Not all possibilities may be predicted or controlled.”

  “Some are better than none. I shall not go out there so unprepared in future.”

  “It’s all right, Sam. It was not your fault and we are both fine.”

  He glances at her for the first time, gaze darting across her bloody skirt. “Ivy—”

  “Will you take Grip with you to see Thurman? He may help you get the bounty if one can be had. It’s in his interests as well.”

  Sam nods, his mouth closed tight again, gaze ahead.

  “I will get us a couple of rooms back. Were you at the doctor’s all morning? You need sleep.”

  He nods again.

  Ivy says nothing more as they cross Montezuma Avenue toward the bridge.

  By the time she has returned the nag and starts for Mrs. Acker’s boarding house, Ivy is stiff and limping. Señorita will help her with a bath, but she fears another costly doctor’s visit as she hobbles to the front door.

  The morose Englishwoman greets her, cigarette in her lips. “Yes?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Acker. I wondered if I might have a couple of rooms?”

  “Why?” The woman’s glare takes in her ripped skirt and blood.

  Ivy blinks. “I ... need a place for the night?”

  “Haven’t anymore rooms.”

  Ivy’s heart sinks. “But—”

  “Seems your cowboy pal has already looked after things for you, girl.”

  “Melchior? He’s here?”

  “Limped in a couple hours ago. Been feeling sorry for himself in the parlor ever since. Can’t get into his room yet because it’s occupied till this evening. Yours is on.”

  “Thank—”

  The woman turns without another word.

  Ivy steps in after her, hoping for the offer of dinner, refreshment at least, even if they are extra. She receives neither. Mrs. Acker marches off to the kitchen with a trail of smoke following.

  Ivy turns right to find Melchior leaned back on the calico sofa, his ankle bound, lifted on a cushion, arms crossed. He also has a cigarette in his mouth, talking to the girl of all work. She moves about the room, cleaning and dusting, though it is clear she has been at it for some time. Every surface has been wiped, pillows already turned. Far too hot a June day to stoke fires. Now and then she glances sideways at Melchior, flushed, catching her breath, quickly looking away, eyes darting back a moment later as she dusts.

  Wanting to shake the girl, Ivy pauses in the doorway. Her cousin speaks fast in Spanish. It sounds irritable, complaining, but, like Grip’s frown, this is little indication.

  Ivy at last abandons invitation and steps into the room.

  Señorita looks around, dropping her duster, picking it up, wiping down a clean table.

  Melchior pauses to look at Ivy. “Where’s Sam?”

  Perfect. Skirts torn, hair tangled, blood down her dress, covered in dirt and horse hair and sweat, face and hands scratched from falling down the slope in sagebrush.

  Two words and she wants to slap him.

  Ivy stands, staring at him in cool hostility. Even ignorant young Josiah White would have backed away from such a countenance.

  Melchior squints at her belt. “That my Colt?”

  She looks down. His Single Action Army remains wedged in the little holster, her own Lightning stuck in her belt.

  “Certainly. Would you like a demonstration?” She whips it out and shoots him.

  No. She thinks of it.

  Instead, she says nothing, seizing the grip, then jerking and tugging it loose before throwing it at him.

  Melchior catches it—does not even seem to notice the gesture is hostile. He looks over the barrel, then opens the loading gate and plucks out the base pin to free the cylinder. He lifts the cigarette from his lips to blow dust and ash off the gun before beckoning the girl over, a
sking her something.

  She hands him her cleaning rag, more frazzled than ever.

  He fusses over the Colt like an old lady in her garden after frost, soon glancing again at Ivy.

  “Sam all right? What happened? Said he’d bring it back.”

  Was there a note of accusation that she brought it back? Was there really? As if she stole the object from precious buddy Sam and rushed here to take credit for a daring rescue.

  There is so much. So much. She cannot trust herself to speak on the matter at all.

  “Melchior, I would like a bath and something to wrap my wounds. Then the key to my room since it is available. Will you please tell the girl so I don’t have to mime?”

  He looks up again from the gun. “What happened to you?”

  “Your friend Sam and I were almost eaten. But we brought your Colt back, so what else matters? Will you please ask the girl for the bath and key?”

  He regards her a moment, blue eyes narrowed, then looks at Señorita, who stands docilely by, waiting for her rag, peeping glances at him.

  “Esta necesita un baño.”

  Señorita looks from Melchior to Ivy, as if confused, brows drawn down a shade. Then she nods. “Desde luego, señor.”

  “¿Puedes ayudarle con sus heridas? ¿Y despues traer la llave de su cuarto y algo de comer?”

  Señorita nods more, all smiles now. “Sí, ahorita.” She drops him a curtsy, then hurries to Ivy, gently reaching to take her elbow and lead her away, leaving Melchior with her cleaning rag.

  Ivy looks back at him. “I will need my clothes which Isaiah is storing at the workshop.”

  Melchior only jerks his chin to show he heard, his attention back on the gun.

  A foot of steaming water in the little tin bathtub, then dry and nearly clean towels all seem beautiful luxuries. The scraped skin on her leg, running in patches from knee to thigh, proves superficial. No embedded debris this time. She washes the spots carefully with soap from Señorita, then soaks and scrubs again. If she can keep the area clean for a couple of days it will scab over and heal on its own. Perhaps not even a scar. Such is not the happy fate of her arm, she knows, looking dismally at the little stitches she must have Dr. Hintzen remove.

  She has wrapped up in feeble towels when the girl returns with what Ivy has already come to think of as her city dress. Leg shrouded in a muslin cloth, she slips into undergarments, chemise, dress—not bothering with lace, she must only wear it upstairs—before turning the bloody yellow thing over to the girl for more cleaning.

  Back to the original room she occupied when first they entered Santa Fé, she greets the inflexible, outdated bed almost with a smile.

  Señorita eagerly offers her guacamole and enchiladas. Did Melchior make more of an effort than she supposed? Yet Ivy finds herself falling asleep over her plate and soon curls onto the stiff rope and straw bed.

  The tap at her door seems moments later, though she blinks to find light has faded.

  “Ivy?” Sam’s soft voice. “Do you need a meal?”

  Is it dinnertime already? Ivy scrambles to lace up dress and boots and brush her hair before meeting him downstairs.

  Sam stands in the foyer, waiting for her. Melchior leans against both the doorway and a wooden crutch, his wrapped heel resting on the floor, awkwardly rolling a cigarette with his arms against supports.

  Sam smiles, shifting a peppermint around his mouth. “Surely you can negotiate.”

  “Well as a fellow negotiates sunset. Man can buy three good horses with eighty dollars.”

  “Perhaps a lower grade of leather?”

  “Hell’s the point in that? Buy custom boots so they last. Not so you can cut them off your foot or watch them fall apart on the trail.”

  “You still possess one good specimen. What of getting the cut boot repaired? There must be good cobblers in the city.”

  “Never be the same. Split from tab to heel.”

  Ivy tries not to smirk as she walks up to them. Whose fault is that? Although, she also cannot help noticing his tone is quite different arguing with Sam than with her. Not scathing. Only tired and irritated. She always imagined her own little lace-up boots to be of fine quality, yet they are beginning to suffer after much abuse.

  Sam turns to her, offering his left arm. “May we have the pleasure of your company for dinner?”

  “Thank you for coming to fetch me, Sam. How are you?”

  Melchior glares as he licks and finishes the wrapper, not looking at her.

  “I would ask the same.” He holds out the mint bag. “Your injuries? Do you need to see the doctor?”

  “Only for stitches to come out. No more in.”

  He leads her out, pausing to light Melchior’s cigarette for him, then waiting until Melchior has hopped after them to close the door.

  They walk slowly toward El Rio. Melchior and Ivy avoid looking at one another while Sam walks between them, and Ivy asks what happened with Thurman.

  The sheriff refused anything at first—claiming those risers would have been destroyed anyway. Sam told the whole story about the new pack dispatched by himself, Grip, and Rosalía, none of which they were claiming bounty on, and said that if the man would pay them for what they had, they would both consider encounters settled.

  “He did. I admit I was surprised. Grip said nothing, only stood beside me, so I am unsure if the polite, reasoned approach was what won the man over, or seeing Grip there with his guns and a bag of severed digits. A visage which should make me wish to pay handsomely for anyone to remove themselves from my office. Dismissing Grip’s share has left us one hundred and eighty dollars from the endeavor.”

  “We can take it all to Oliver and learn news of the expected freighter—”

  “All?” Melchior cuts in. “Shoot those critters yourself now? Need boots, place to live, grub for us and string. Hold some for cards besides. Could double that tonight—”

  “You cannot keep gambling all our money each time we—”

  “Got plenty now though. Savvy time for it.” He looks to Sam, as if hoping for assurance regarding their vast capital.

  “For future consideration, you may not wish me to negotiate again,” Sam says. “We are fortunate to have any and I felt tempted to push the whole purse on our one-eyed comrade. He saved all our lives at the fire, returned us to town on an alternate road in the dark which none of us would have found, then saved our lives again today.”

  Not to mention taking care of the horses and herself.

  “We’ve had bad luck,” Melchior says, chewing his cigarette. “Shouldn’t need so much saving.”

  “All the more reason not to gamble,” Ivy says.

  Sam steps to the low porch of the saloon and pulls open a swing door for them.

  Melchior starts to thump past, mumbling about winning bets, but Sam lifts his hand in front of his face. Melchior stops, then waves irritably at Ivy—apparently unable to bring himself to say, “After you,” or, “Ladies first,” even sarcastically.

  Ivy steps inside to find the place already noisy and smoky with drinking, jargon-tongued, sweating, eating, cursing men. She knows Santa Fé has real restaurants, after a fashion, but cannot object to eating at the Irish-Mexican saloon when Shannon offers the cheapest food in town. Salty, fried tortillas and pickled peppers, hot salsa and sardines, pickled or fried onions, smoked bacon and jackalope jerky thick with dry chile flakes, and other spicy or salted snacks are pushed at visitors nearly round the clock.

  The bar is already full with men standing at the tarnished rail, while there are plenty of available tables. The three are making their way to one when Melchior stops short and Ivy walks into him.

  “There’s that crazy b—woman,” Melchior says.

  Ivy and Sam follow his gaze to a table against the front wall, not far from the door. Here, Grip, adorned in faded morning coat, sits across from a pale though dark-haired young woman. Ivy recognizes her at once and burns with curiosity. Such a peculiar creature. The woman looks across
at Grip with dewy eyes, expression soft, almost aglow with tender feelings which Ivy finds shocking. If a young lady truly felt so strongly for a man in Boston—unlikely in the first place—she would endeavor to conceal the matter. A lady should be courted, wooed, won. Is this woman of ... unsavory character? Or is there something truly sublime about the surly, grubby man which Ivy herself is overlooking?

  Melchior starts toward them, but Sam catches his shoulder.

  “I mean no insult to the late Mrs. L’Heureux,” Sam says in his ear, “who I am sure did her best, but were you raised with savages?”

  “Please do not think my cousin is a reflection of American standards, Sam,” Ivy says, moving on. “There are plenty of gentlemen back East.”

  Melchior keeps glancing over his shoulder as Sam pulls him to the side wall. “See the look on her face? Snails. Tried asking him about her while we were out last week. Course, wouldn’t talk.”

  Sam pulls out Ivy’s chair and slides it in for her, then steps back around the table to help Melchior into a chair and lean his crutch against the wall.

  “Don’t ’spose he’s paying her, do you?”

  “Mel—” Sam stares as if Melchior spit at him. “You are not on a cattle trail any longer.”

  Melchior glances at Ivy, then back to the front wall. He shrugs. “Doing something with all this cash, ain’t he? Look at his clothes.” He turns to face their own table, looking sulky, still mumbling, “Coon’s age since he had new boots.”

  With a sigh, Sam sits down, flushed. “I daresay he supports his family. The people who raised him live here, quite elderly now, and he has nieces and nephews from the adopted family about as well.”

  Melchior looks at him. “How’d you know that?”

  “We rode alone together a full day. No dissertations, but we got through a few sentences.”

  “Anything about the woman?” Another glance back.

  “No. And I shall thank you to drop the subject.”

  Marian, the saloon girl, descends on their table, bringing fried broken tortillas, peppers, and spicy garlic cheese curds. She winks at Melchior as she walks up, addressing herself to him.